Please Write Back
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: I know that my voice has been lost between the silence where we live, and the words that have disappeared in the corners of empty promises and yesmaybeno’s, fool’s hopes. Oneshot lit, what else is new.


**A/N: **An idea that came to mind in that pre-sleep lull. Kind of worked off Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days, but you don't need to have just seen the episode to understand. R & R.

**Disclaimer: **I own the world!

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Maybe this is not what he expected. It's not the perfect world, it's not even close. It's not even near to where he would like it to be, but just the same; he stays. There's something magnetic—pulling him, and as far away as he would like to be, he doesn't leave. It's something in the air, maybe, but he doesn't leave.

Days pass and she doesn't even look at him. He is beginning to resent himself almost as much as she does. He is beginning to see the warning signs; the tension in the air, the pursed lips, the red cheeks. He remembers a time when she would blush at his touch, rather then visibly tighten. He is beginning to think that maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

He leaves her a note, one day, leaves it by the counter, smeared by water stains from sitting under a day old cup of coffee that he forgot to wash. He figures that she won't read it, but kind of hopes she does anyway.

Dear Rory,

I am beginning to think that maybe we made a mistake. Do you remember when you went to Washington? I still wish that maybe you would have written me. I wrote you. So many letters that I could never send. I wasted pen and paper on you. The funny thing is—no matter how many drafts I made, how many piles of crumpled notepads stuffed inside an overflowing garbage can—all I could come up with was Dear Rory. I'm beginning to think that maybe that's what your problem was, too.

I wish you would talk to me. You used to talk to me. I can see it in your eyes; your losing hope. Maybe you can see it in mine, too. I feel like I need to explain myself, but I don't even know what I did. I wish you would tell me. I need help, Rory, you need to help me understand. I miss the sound of your voice. I think you miss it, too.

Jess

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Maybe this is not what she expected. It isn't the fantasy that she imagined, images rolling around in her head of family reunions and lying in bed all day just reading; just being together. She is beginning to lose hope—this much he is right—but it is not in him, but them. In herself.

She doesn't understand why he doesn't want to hold her anymore. Why their car wreck of a relationship isn't built on trust, why the seams are ripping and she can't seem to find the sewing box. She needs this, she needs him. She is beginning to think that maybe he doesn't need her. Maybe this isn't what she expected, but she at least hopes that it's right. Because right now, everything just feels so wrong.

She reads his note. She writes him one—doesn't think that she can tell him what is on her mind. She slips it into the book he is reading; a makeshift bookmark that she is almost sure he will bypass, but kind of hopes that he doesn't.

Dear Jess,

I remember sitting at my desk and writing you those letters, all of which held nothing but the ink from my pen running the sides across the words Dear Jess—once again, the only ones that would come out. I knew what I wanted to say: Dear Jess, I'm sorry, but I don't regret it. Dear Jess, I'm thinking maybe I love you, but I'm too scared to tell you. Dear Jess, you are so much different than anyone I have ever met, I think that you are more incredible, too. Dear Jess, please forgive me. Dear Jess, please write back.

I wish that I could talk to you. I know that my voice has been lost between the silence where we live, and the words that have disappeared in the corners of empty promises and yes-maybe-no's, fool's hopes. I don't think you did anything wrong, but I wish I could fix this gaping hole that seems to grow bigger every day that it seems we grow apart. I miss your kisses. I think you miss mine, too.

Rory

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He reads her note. He thinks that at least this much they have in common; they both have the past of themselves, what has gone in their maturity, their growth. They both remember being young and stubborn, hopeless and angry—at nothing in particular, they were both screwed up.

He sees her pass him, she always does and he doesn't really understand why this time it is different, but just the same it is, and he stops.

"This wasn't a mistake," he says.

She nods. "I never thought it was."

"Oh."

Their exchange is enough, and they move on into _that_ silence; not the one of muggy days in Stars Hollow where the leather couch sticks beneath them, with her hair smelling like shampoo and whatever is closest, he thinks, to what angels must be like, and her hands in his hair like it is the only thing that she can hold on to. Instead it is the silence of being lost in thought—of trying to figure something out, even when you are not sure what.

He really doesn't think it was a mistake. It surprises him, nonetheless, at her response. Because, in truth, he was beginning to doubt them himself.

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She thinks about what he said to her, a few days in the passing, and no words of importance since then. No more coffee-mug notes, no passage into what he might be thinking, although she is pretty sure that their thought process is the same. That's one thing she could put in the pro column.

She spends her time avoiding him, but still she remembers what he had said. She didn't think it was a mistake, but only in the passing does she realize that maybe this was a way out. They both need a way out. She can't seem to let go, though. She thinks maybe this is their problem.

"I never sent the letters because I didn't think you'd care," she says.

He looks at her. "I never sent mine because I didn't think you would."

"Oh."

They move along once again, yet another endless drone of nothing but background noises and breathing. She realizes that his eyes no longer remind her of chocolate. They have grown cold. Just mud.

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They both can't seem to leave; it's something magnetic that keeps them holding on. They don't really know if it's commitment or just nostalgia—it's such a fine line and the water from tears can blur most simple things. They both now there has been enough tears to wash away the entire mark.

Then, one day, they find each other's gaze. It's nothing except happening to look up at the same time; but they find themselves doing it more and more lately. It can't be coincidence, and isn't longing either, but they both think that maybe this is more hope then they've had in a while.

"There's a chance, for us, yet," he says to her one day.

They catch each other's eyes once again, and where he finds an ocean, she finds chocolate. And it makes her think that maybe he could be right.


End file.
